Before I left for Europe, I’d started to lose interest in New York. Everyone was wearing pleather and black Doc Martens, wearing sweatpants to class. It was lazy in its style, the people at the club were stuck-up, and all the reservations for the outdoor seating on Lafayette Street in SoHo were taken up by what I disparagingly term the “unemployeds.” But absence makes the heart grow fonder, and coming back from studying abroad in London has made me see it in a new light. The people say “please” and “thank you” when you least expect it, I’m able to walk into my favorite restaurant with only a five minute wait, and the street style is more fashion-forward (and preppier, more well-coiffed) than the ridiculous and outrageous outfits on the New York Street style Instagram would have you believe.
I walk through Nolita, SoHo, and Greenwich Village to get to class most days, taking detours through the West Village, East Village, and the LES when I’ve got time on my hands. I like Tribeca for its polish and glamour– stylish mothers pushing strollers with fresh blowouts, contemporary art galleries, little brunch places with families, and college friend meetups. I love the West Village for its collision of worlds – you see high-powered couples from Connecticut in long Burberry coats sharing the sidewalk with five teenagers from Long Island in their blue jeans and black top uniform, each holding the exact same matcha.
I consider myself a cultural anthropologist in the truest street-style sense. I only recently realized that not everyone is watching the passerby as intently as I am – maybe not their personality, envisioning their lives outside of that moment, but certainly their outfits and the way they carry themselves – head held high, or, unfortunately, in most cases, shoulders slouched with a case of tech-neck. Something I’ve noted is that status here rarely announces itself the way you’d expect, a kind of elaborate camouflage. Everyone in Manhattan is wearing their status symbols: for men, a tee from Aimé Leon Dore, a Stüssy hoodie, or a Chrome Hearts hoodie; for women, a designer bag (take your pick of Prada nylon or Louis Vuitton Neverful), a fur coat, a pair of Manolo Blahnik heels. But those status symbols sometimes tend towards raggedy and unkempt, and the effect of that trend boggles my mind: why are bare nails considered a status symbol now? Why is the all-black sweat suit costing the man at Sant Ambroeus twenty thousand dollars, and why does he think it shows his self-importance more (I mean, he’s sitting in Sant Ambroeus, after all) than if he wore a polo and jeans? It’s interesting that you can’t always tell what someone does for a living, or whether they take the subway or have a driver, or what their apartment looks like.
Here’s what I’ve been noticing as of recent: the Alaïa mesh ballet flats (and every Alaïa-inspired knockoff from here to Zara); the bootcut jean revival; white-on-cream tonal dressing — think wide-leg linen trousers with a slouchy cream crewneck, Nantucket-prep gone downtown; the Adidas Gazelle, still going strong since 2016; tiny oval sunglasses on everyone (I’m partial to huge frames – so much more mysterious!); tailored office suiting worn by women lounging outside Sartiano’s, glancing at the chic passerbys at the crosswalk headed to iconic Fanelli’s, relaxing at the end of the workday; chic Europeans taking up every outdoor table at Sant Ambroeus in SoHo at 11 in the morning on a Tuesday; the line at Mimi’s stretching half a block for (mediocre) froyo. At night, the crowd waiting outside the Bowery Ballroom, Ray’s on Chrystie street, and the Box is doing something more interesting: slingback heels with sheer pantyhose (everyone’s committed, but I can’t get behind it – pick a season you’re dressing for!), studded rhinestone denim (on the legs, on the back pockets) and silver everything: Mary Janes, ballet flats, mules. Silver is basically a neutral now, whether you’re going to work or a dive bar on Orchard street.
Speaking of places, some that I’ve noticed that have been weirdly drawing a chic crowd: Little Italy, not even the tourists, now it’s the yuppies, too. Tascha, the Portuguese place that’s only open on Thursdays, is always packed. Rintintin, my favorite restaurant in Manhattan (the chef recognizes me when I walk down the block, and I’m distracted from my favorite unwinding activity – intensely staring at what everyone’s wearing and what the solo diners are typing on their laptops). La Pecora Bianca with the aforementioned teens here for the day with their moms from Long Island; Leon’s bagels, especially on Mulberry street; Odd Sister in SoHo, a couple blocks away from my favorite store, Retrofete; I could keep going on and on, because once the temperature rises above 70, every restaurant south of Houston street, from Varick to Orchard, fills with the “unemployeds,” waiting on lines of all sorts, from the New York or Nowhere shop to the Mexican place, Michtlan, in Dimes Square.
Summer is the season that’s best to show off feminine style – billowy maxi-skirts, flowy blouses, the kind of easy, unselfconscious dressing that’s like Carrie Bradshaw’s style crossed with the dreamiest fashion show, which is obviously the Gianni Versace spring 1995 fashion show. My one unwavering conviction: if it’s fake, don’t wear it. Pleather and faux fur almost always look gaudy. They look cheaper than ordinary polyester, because they’re obvious imitations, the fashion equivalent of a knockoff Missoni print on an Amazon bikini, or a polyester blouse someone at a vintage shop is hoping you’ll mistake for Pucci.
Other things I’ve seen on repeat this season: black athletic skin-tight romper bodysuits (not a fan, too simple), capris making a return, a lot of turquoise, pointed-toe flats with little buckles, silk shorts paired with an oversized Knicks tee (laundry day?), chunky pearl necklaces, long gingham dresses and seersucker doing the prairie-meets-prep thing, and the New Balance 530 sneakers (I love their silver and shine!). One sincere loss, though: nautical fashion is basically gone this season. A navy striped marinière, Ralph Lauren crewneck sweaters, wide-leg sailor trousers…
The pop-up economy on Broome and Spring Streets has been a real bright spot. In recent weeks alone: Alice + Olivia, Retrofête, Rag & Bone, Lanvin, Veronica Beard, JW Pei with those colorful rhinestone bags. These are brands that are not fast fashion, not disposable, not boring, for the most part. Which brings me to my broader conviction about getting dressed: every single piece you own should have a little twist to it. Even a black top – especially a black top! It’s what separates a person who simply wears clothes from a person who puts effort and self-confidence in what they purchase and how they present themselves. Stores like Everlane and & Other Stories are technically fine, I guess, the quality is there, but they’ve built entire aesthetics around the absence of a twist, an aesthetic of “blah” and shapeless and self-consciousness – not exactly something to get excited about.
There’s no definitive guide to any of this, which is both a frustration and a pleasure (keeping the spots local). Eater and Time Out just can’t capture it: the Mulberry Street happy hour crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, the forever-packed room at Cipriani Downtown glowing under its yellow awning from noon to midnight, the joy of Stone Street in FiDi on St. Patrick’s Day. The city’s best social information still travels by word of mouth and pure dumb luck (usually on a day where you hit twenty thousand steps). And you can’t spell word of mouth without thinking of Sunbleacht. Puzzle that one out, I dare you!
Sunbleacht 
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